My wardrobe now includes rhinestone skull-and-crossbones "couture" inspired by (ahem) the "Pirates of the Caribbean," and I hope no one noticed. When we rolled into Daytona's 76th Annual Bike Week on our rented 2005 Electra Glide alongside thousands of Harley-Davidson hardcore bikers, I was a little annoyed by the revving exhaust and the deafening show of decibels. But as we cruised through a gauntlet of flag-waving attendants, I was blown away by the miles of marked pavement studded with bike after bike of all styles and makes gleaming in the sun. Most of them Harley-Davidsons. I'd never seen so many motorcycles in one place.

I took a deep breath, not knowing exactly what to expect. I'd heard stories of wheelie-riding races, explosive bar brawls, and half-naked mud-wrestling women. Make that cabbage instead of mud! I took off my helmet and pulled my protective bike hood back, folded it into a wide makeshift headband, a fashion choice that seemed to fit the moment.

It wasn't long before we were at the first booth where a young barmaid showing lots of skin was taking beer orders. For a second, my motherly instinct kicked into high gear, even in that broad daylight, but the sights of her knuckle brass ring and a high police presence assured me she could probably take care of herself while handling her customers.

At the last minute we'd jumped in for the ride to Daytona with my brother- and sister-in-law.

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Now we were looking across a sea of denim and chrome for my nephew and his dad, veterans who'd done more than a few tours in unfriendly places and who knew their Harleys inside and out.

Walking past a showcase of competing wild bikes, some which looked as if they'd driven off the set of "Easy Rider" or tore right out of the pages of a Marvel Comic, we eventually spotted them between one of the Harley-Davidson showrooms and a row of vendors where they'd parked side by side. Our nephew Tommy's is a lowriding fast ride he's modified, and his dad's is a 2001 Road King, covered in licking flames.

After catching up and picking through tents of black T-shirts, kiosks of bike parts and temporary booths displaying everything from Native American jewelry to ear-piercing sound systems, we mounted our bikes with a tiny year's supply of sunglass cleaner and headed to Iron Horse Saloon, a popular outdoor watering hole my sister-in-law Brenda wanted us to see. That afternoon it was packed with a boot-wearing, beer-drinking, barbecue-eating crowd, and I was one of many who gazed in while a tattoo artist added red pigment to the image on one biker's arm. It was a beehive of cigarette smoke, a series of mock tree forts connected by bridges and stairs built above an open air stage where patrons broke into drinking songs and rocked out to Danny Charles and Tornado Factory. It's the first time I've seen fried baloney on a menu. The first time I'd ridden with my husband on a Harley.

I can appreciate Harleys, and it is possible that the bikes have started to grow on me, but they are big ear-blasters and bad bone-shakers, and I'm told unless you are touring down miles of straight road, they are not the performance bike for the rider who loves turns and hills. At least not this rider.

Buzz Bissinger, Pulitzer Prize-winning journalist and author of "Friday Night Lights," wrote in Popular Mechanics last year: "My wife, Lisa, the guiding goddess of motorcycling on account of her 40 years of riding experience, doesn't like Harleys. She thinks they are lumbering chrome guzzlers, noisy for the sake of being noisy. And then there are Harley riders, with their corpulent bodies and dry wells for eyes and tattoos up and down their arms like seedy strip malls and packing more weapons than the average Texas citizen. And that's just the women."

Brenda swears by the American borne bike, though, and loves the running board style foot rests. Mine just got in the way whenever Steve shifted or backed our heavy bike up, forcing me to flip them up or slide my feet back so his calves wouldn't catch on the toes of my boots.

"You'll love them on long rides," everyone said.

And I don't know much about bikes, but as a passenger on a VStrom adventure bike putting down hundreds of miles daily a few weeks ago in Ecuador, those ergonomic quirks were nonexistent. I loved my simple foot pegs.

The thing is, Harley-Davidson hasn't changed much since 1903, part of its charm. It is an American icon, and riders are buying into more than a machine. It's a way of life based on a certain kind of freedom. The bikes were used in World Ward I and II, and since have stood for a special brand of patriotism. Even so, a later stop at a huge Harley dealer had our salesman revealing that the new Harleys are being made in Canada with parts shipped from China. In fact, our boy Beau urged us to buy now while the bikes are still cheap.

The black Electra Glide, with a cushy seat for me, at $24,000 was tempting, and outside of a culture of leather chaps, wallet chains, and black bandanas, it might fit the bill. But owning own doesn't make sense for the little amount of time we spend riding.

For now, I'll pack away my biker bling until the next time the adventurous spirit of the open road calls.

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